


Trustful Hands

by dirtypavvs



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Rock Band, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-09
Updated: 2016-05-19
Packaged: 2018-06-07 10:03:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,278
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6799405
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dirtypavvs/pseuds/dirtypavvs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The one-year anniversary of his girlfriend Ygritte's death marks the first show of a twenty-something year old Jon Snow's band, The Night's Watch. He's still a little broken, but the bartender seems familiar, and is pretty nice, too.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Jon I

He signs the last document in front of him in a quick motion. His notices his hands are still shaking when he sets the pen down. The pen. It’s nice, a Waterman fountain pen. Black and gold, _like the Greyjoy sigil downtown_ , he thinks.

“Jon?”

He’s pulled from his reverie and looks up where Robb’s voice came from, but all he does is blink. He barely registers when Robb sits next to him and cups his cheek in a soft hand, gently his head is moved left to right and he’s staring into blue eyes.

“I was on my way as soon as they called. It took me forever to find you here, I’m sorry.”

Robb keeps touching him, moving his hair behind his ear and readjusting the blanket around his shoulders. He hears him shout more things, something about breathing and air, but he’s too tired to think much about it. Suddenly, everything’s black.

When he wakes up, there’s a cannula up his nose and Robb is curled up, asleep in a chair underneath the window beside his bed.

He doesn’t say anything, he doesn’t even move at first. He curls his fingers and winces when he hears a pop come from his right hand. Three of his fingers are in a splint and his wrist is wrapped. He stares at the bandages.

Maybe it’s been ten minutes or maybe it’s been an hour, even longer, it doesn’t make a difference to him as Robb stirs. The boy uncurls his legs from under himself and rubs the back of his neck, a small yawn escaping his lips even as he stretches. When he notices Jon’s awake, or that his eyes are at least open, he sits on the foot of the bed and gingerly places a hand on his leg, careful not to bump the broken one.

“You breathing okay now, big guy?” Robb’s eyebrows furrow and his eyes seem glossy, “You had me worried, you know.”

“Nothing new.” His own, quiet reply surprises him, but he focuses on Robb’s weak smile.

“Fair enough.”

“What happened to her?”

He watches his brother immediately look away and he has his answer.

“They shouldn’t have been letting you sign anything, they shouldn’t have even let you sit up for so long.”

“I was coherent.” That’s the word he’d heard them say, at least.

Robb only shakes his head.

“What do I do now?” His voice is even smaller this time, so quiet he’s not sure Robb’s even heard him for a moment.

“Tormund is already making arrangements. You’ll be out in time for the funeral.”

He turns his head away from Robb, “I want out now.”

Robb is saying something, but he feels tired again. This time it’s sleep that comes for him and he graciously closes his eyes for it.

 

* * *

 

Time passes slowly and tragedy befalls the Starks a little more.

Jon’s leg heals but Bran will never walk again. His hand is mended but his spirit is broken. He’s always tired and his frown has deepened indefinitely.

He sits down in front of the engraved headstone before him. He’s brought a bouquet of winter roses but they fit so comfortably he can’t bring himself to rest them on the ground, afraid of not knowing where to set his hands. He stares at them in his lap for a few minutes before he speaks.

“I miss you. I guess you know that, though.” Half a smile appears on his lips, “It was me who was clueless. ‘You know nothing, Jon Snow.’” He does his best impression of Ygritte as he stares at her name.

“It’s been an entire year. It doesn’t feel like that long. I’m doing good, I think. I’m doing better, at least. Better than I was 6 months ago, and definitely more than a year ago. Better than I’ll be doing tomorrow? I don’t know. Sam and I got the band back together, and he talked Satin and Pyp and Grenn to join us. I know, I know. Exactly what you said I should have been doing all along.”

He leans over and sets the roses down against the stone, “Everyone here still loves you. We talk about you a lot. You were just way too wild for this world, though, weren’t you? That’s okay. I’m gonna see Tormund tonight at the show. Our first show, real show. Some Greyjoy bar down near the pier. Hope you’ll hear us, tonight’s show is dedicated to you.”

He picks himself up and brushes his pants off, pressing his lips to his fingers and touching the top of the stone. “I love you, Ygritte.”


	2. Theon I

He shields his bouquet as he nearly runs into the black curls in front of him, “Watch where the fuck you're going.”

When the boy turns around he goes from curls to sad eyes and apologies and he resists the urge to roll his own eyes when he notices the winter roses the boys carrying. He sighs, feeling a little guilty, and waves his free hand, “Whatever, kid. Just watch out.”

He pays for the flowers with a bunch of crumpled ones, his hands are a little shaky and he feels like the clerk stares at him a little too long before taking the money. When he finally makes it out of the store he takes out his phone, glowering at the unread text message from Yara for a second then checks the time. He'll be late for his train if he doesn't leave now.

 _Another stressful fucking day in the life of Theon fucking Greyjoy._  

 

* * *

 

He spends a long time staring at his mom’s grave before he puts the flowers in the bouquet anchor. He arranges them a little and licks his lips, _I’m just fucking around now_. He misses her, but there's nothing he can fucking _do about it_ , so he ignores the pit in his stomach and moves on.

He barely gives a glance to the gravestones before hers as he sets a single cigarette down on either of them. He doesn't particularly miss Rodrik and Maron, and they probably deserved what they got, but he includes them in his offered prayer to the Drowned God none the less.

He bows his head and mutters a short prayer, ending it with a traditional: “What is dead may never die.”

He cracks his neck and wrings his hands before putting them in his jacket pockets. As he makes his way back towards the main path he notices the same curls from earlier.

Great.

Now he feels even more guilty for getting mad, and he pauses to watch for a second. The boy is sitting in front of a grave, he recognizes the winter roses in his lap as well. When the boy starts talking Theon takes his cue, rolling his shoulders back, and continues walking.

 

* * *

 

He ties the black apron around his waist and brushes his hair back with wet fingers. He hates working the bar, but Yara had promised him the band would be good and he could drink all he wanted at the end of the set so he finally agreed.

He wipes shot glasses clean and hangs out behind the counter. It's still early, but people are already coming in. He's not quite paying attention, they're all at the tables Yara’s manning and none of them have asked for anything to drink, and he pulls out his phone. He leans against the counter and plays Candy Crush, cursing under his breath when he loses a fifth round.

“I'm not too good at that either.”

He startles at the voice and slams his phone down on the counter. His own voice comes out hurriedly, “I'm sorry. How long have you been there? Can I get you anything?”

The boy in front of him gives a little half smile, “No, no it's fine. I'm just waiting for the stage to get ready.”

“You're a part of the band?” He can’t fucking believe it.

“Yeah?” The boy blinks, then gives a full smile, “Why?”

 _The boy from the flower shop_. He feels like a total dick, now, “I just. I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone in a band before.” _At least he doesn’t recognize me._

“Don’t get too excited, yet. You don’t know if we’re good or not. We don’t even know if we’re good or not.”

He gives a short, forced laugh that’s interrupted by someone calling ‘Jon’ back to the stage.

“Guess that’s my cue. See you, post-show for some beers.”

“Yeah.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is really short?? Shorter than the last one, at least. I've had a really hard time writing it. Usually Theon writes himself for me, but towards the end... man.
> 
> This fis is gonna be POV alternating Jon/Theon/Jon/Theon/etc. Hopefully in a couple chapters it won't seem so /at the same time/ you know?


	3. Jon II

Jon can feel his voice crack with the last note. He’s sweaty and tired, but he feels a little lighter now as he grasps the microphone stand with both hands.

“I just want to thank everyone who came here tonight. Some of you know us, a lot of you don’t. Hopefully the songs got better, even if it was proportional to the amount of empty bottles at the bar.” He smiles as the crowd laughs, “It’s been a long time getting here. Even just doing this show. The band, my mates,” He gives a grand gesture to everyone behind him.

“Satin, Samwell, Pypar, Grenn.” He points to the red-head at the bar, who lifts up a glass of beer at the sound of his name, “Tormund.”

“I just want to thank a special, a real special person, who sadly couldn’t be here tonight. Her name was Ygritte Wilde, and she was a hell of a lot more talented than I could ever hope to be. But she’s also the one who inspired me and told me to, she told me, fuck.” He gives a forced laugh as he sniffs loudly, away from the microphone, “I’m sorry, Gods, that’s embarrassing. She told me that if this is what I wanted to do, what we,” Another gesture towards the band, “wanted to do, she’d support us.”

“She’s been gone a year ago today, and that’s what makes this first show so special. So, thanks for sharing it with us. I’m sorry I’m such a fucking downer,” He leans against the microphone again, “I hope you all have a really nice, a real safe night, and come to our next show. Enjoy yourselves and dance to some _actual_ good music now!”

He steps off stage just as soon as some generic pop song starts playing.

Soon enough Sam’s clapped him on the back and Pyp and Grenn have high fived him, already making a bee-line for the pretty girl waiting tables. Satin’s saved a seat from him and Jon can feel relief flush through him as he sits on the barstool.

“That was some pretty heavy shit, man. You did good. We sounded great. She’d be proud.”

“I hope so.” He rubs his temples and then moves his hand, waving, “Can we get a couple beers over here?”

“That's sweet. Not that I don't deserve a treat.”

He laughs, “Very modest, Satin. Too bad they're both for me.” As he turns to take the drinks, he sees the boy from earlier is still manning the counter, “Hey, buddy! It’s you.”

“Hey.”

_He’s nervous. That’s cute._ “I’m Jon, didn’t get the chance to catch your name, earlier.”

He mumbles something that sounds a lot like, “Theon.”

“So, what’d you think?”

“You were okay.” The boy tries to stay straight faced, but a smile tugs on the corner of his mouth.

He takes a moment for it to sink in, before he claps Satin on the back and starts laughing, “Oh my god, that’s great. Thanks for being honest.”

“Seriously, you guys are great. Night’s Watch? I can only guess where you guys got the name from.”

“We’re badass, we wanted a badass band name.”

Satin chimes in, “We all worked at The Wall over the summer on year, back in high school.”

“No way, that reenactment place? Heard it’s cold as shit up there."

Before Jon can say anything about the flower shop, Theon rolls his eyes and says "Be right back.” as he moves away to make a drink for someone else on the other side of the bar.

Jon takes a swig of his beer.

“I like him.”

He gives Satin a look and shrugs, “He’s funny.”

Theon never quite makes it back over long enough for Jon to really say anything, so he makes a mental note of  _next time_  and settles on getting plastered.

 

* * *

 

The next morning Jon regrets his existence and wills himself to die as he shuffles into the kitchen.

“Morning Jon!”

An audible groan escapes his lips as he looks over to Arya, who is smirking and balancing a knife on her thumb, “Shut the fuck up, Ary. Let me die in peace.”

Robb walks in with a half full glass of orange juice, “Who’s dead?”

He dramatically lays his arm over his face, leaning against the counter and sighs, “Me.”

Arya rolls her eyes, “He’s just nursing a wicked hangover.”

“No sympathy. That’s such a shame.” He stands up straight again as he reaches into the cabinet for some ibuprofen, grabbing the rest of Robb’s orange juice and downing it with the pills.

“How’d the show go?” Robb turns on the sink to finish the dishes after he grabs the glass back from his brother.

“Can you say fucking awesome?”

“I _could_.”

“It was just, it was so great. I hope you can come to the next show. The owner, Yara, her name is, is super cool and she’s already booked us again this Friday. I might have overrun my speech a bit, but I think it was perfect.”

“I’m sure she loved it.”

“I hope so. I miss her a lot, Robb.”


End file.
